


gold rush

by Anonymous



Category: Shaman King (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mankin Secret Santa 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28306314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Every person Ren's met has made him self-loathing and spiteful, but not Yoh. Never Yoh.
Relationships: Asakura Yoh/Tao Ren
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13
Collections: Anonymous





	gold rush

**Author's Note:**

> characters are 18+

“Did you wash your hands?” Ren asks. 

The room is quiet, dim lit with the lamp set next to the futon Ren is sitting on. Yoh nods, holding his hands palms up like Ren is going to inspect them. He’s grinning sheepishly, and Ren is unbearably annoyed at how endearing he looks. 

Yoh has always been openly affectionate with his friends. He’s always touching Ren in a way that isn’t completely platonic, subtly enough that no one’s brought it up, obviously enough that someone as second-guessing as Ren believes it. And when he’d bumped their feet together under the table during dinner, nudging him in a way that meant:  _ did you get that?  _ to something Joco said, Ren had grabbed his shirt and said  _ come on _ .

He can’t believe he’s made it this far. Yoh is only wearing slacks, legs folded, and it’s irritatingly distracting in a way where Ren is the only one distracted. He’s cross-legged, stripped down with his knees tucked in, the sheets cold against his skin. 

“Hurry up,” he orders, and tries to bite back his pretension, but if he takes that away there’s nothing left underneath but a humiliating vulnerability. All this acerbity is his last line of defense, and the more Yoh looks at him, the weaker his ranks get.

“Here,” Yoh says with a pillow in hand, crawling over to Ren. (Even that looks endearing when Yoh does it.) Ren scowls when Yoh fits the pillow under his waist like he’s delicate enough to need it.

He’s been worked up ever since Yoh pressed his thigh against Ren’s under the table, too touch-starved to tamp down the swell in his gut. He thinks of Yoh whispering  _ your ears are red,  _ and hopes they aren’t now.

Yoh traces his scar, all the way from his sternum to the bottom of his stomach. There’s a hint of reverence on his face, and Ren suppresses a shiver. He’s glad Yoh knows what he’s doing, although it hurts to know the reason why. At the very least, Ren doesn’t have to take charge. He’d be too awkward about it.

Yoh leans down and licks his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“Stop that,” Ren snaps, jerking more from reflex than in response. 

“You don’t like it?” Yoh asks, directing a questioning look downwards. 

Ren flushes. “It’s weird.” He doesn’t actually know if it is. He’s never done this before, although he’s thought about it plenty, and if anyone asked him with who he’d rather die than answer.

He’s ruining the moment by being so peevish. Yoh doesn’t need to be here, not when there are people out there who aren’t so snappish and difficult. Yoh should leave. Or Ren. He wonders if Yoh feels pressured to be here. Everyone knows Ren can’t handle rejection.

“What do you want to do?” Yoh asks, breaking Ren’s spiral. He shifts closer, no indication that he’s frustrated or bored or wants to leave. 

Ren is used to taking. Not as much as he used to, when every selfish thought manifested into action. He used to take so unthinkingly, but he could never do that to Yoh, not when he gives so unconditionally.

He’s not brave enough to voice what he wants. “I’ve got oil,” he says, settling for something in the middle, pleased when Yoh’s eyes go wide with surprise. 

“You sure?” Yoh asks. His hands hover uncertainly in the air.

Ren leans back, feigning nonchalance, but he knows how transparent he is. The flustered scowl on his face probably does nothing for his case. “ _ Yes _ , I’m sure. Would you get on with it?”

Yoh fumbles with the small vial, pouring too much onto his fingers and trying to catch the excess with his other hand. He looks nervous, and it’s soothing to know Ren isn’t the only one so affected. Yoh glances at him apologetically when the oil drips onto the sheets, but Ren doesn’t mind: they aren’t his, and he’s not kind enough to care about how dirty they get. 

He sucks in a breath when Yoh leans closer, tensing when Yoh touches him. His slicked up finger slides in without much resistance. Yoh glances at him, asking permission silently, and Ren hates him a little for knowing to never voice the question out loud. Ren squirms and nods, hands twisting the sheets. 

Yoh adds another finger and prods around for a minute, neither of them making eye contact. Ren curls his toes, lips pinched together. He’s starting to go soft, but he doesn’t want Yoh to think he doesn’t want this, not when he’s thought of it for so long.

Yoh’s in to the knuckle, and Ren opens his mouth to tell him he’s ready, though he doesn’t have any measure of what ready really means, and—

He jerks, jumping as Yoh brushes against something that makes his stomach coil. 

“Here?” Yoh asks, but he doesn’t need to, not when he repeats the motion and Ren jolts again. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, so he wraps it around himself and pumps once, twice, and stops when he realizes he’s shaking. Yoh keeps moving, and Ren doesn’t know if he’s twisting into or away from it — it’s undignifying either way.

And then Yoh presses, in time with Ren’s hand, and Ren squeezes his eyes shut. He’s not there yet, but if Yoh keeps going — 

“You okay?” Yoh asks softly, affectionately, like Ren  _ matters,  _ and he bucks into it like Yoh hit a reflex.

He doesn’t know if he can trust himself to speak — flushed and shaky, knees weak. 

“You’re sensitive,” Yoh laughs quietly.

“Shut up.” Ren scowls, but it’s not very convincing when he’s gripping Yoh’s shoulders like a vice. He feels dirty, probably looks a mess, but the curve of Yoh’s mouth is fond. Something about it reminds Ren that he’s done this before.

Ren grits his teeth and tugs Yoh down so they’re almost level. “Do it,” he says, an order that comes out like a plea, and Yoh sighs an exhale that’s too measured to be casual.

The sheets shuffle as Yoh settles between his legs. Ren awkwardly pats his hair, the movement more for his comfort than anything. Yoh’s hair is soft, damp from a shower. If Ren were braver, he’d bury his hands in it, but he’s always chosen the coward’s route when it really matters.

Yoh pushes in, and Ren slaps a hand over his mouth, lips stinging. It’s just the tip, and Ren’s chest is shaking. It’s only the tip. 

Yoh pauses, mouth pulled down in a worried frown. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Ren grates out, sounding harsh and sharp, words wobbly on his tongue.

Yoh pushes further, too fast, and Ren’s legs jerk. “Wait,” he gasps, because it’s too much. He’s not supposed to feel so much, not used to feeling so much. He blinks up at the ceiling, trying to find his words, but then Yoh is starting to pull away and—

“ _ No _ ,” he practically shouts, eyes wide at his own shameful outburst. He moves to cover his face, but Yoh laces their hands together before he can, teeth flashing in an open, reassuring smile, and Ren is an open nerve, frayed everywhere, and he would have never done this if he knew it would be this way.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Yoh says gently, and moves again.

It’s humiliating how fast he nears the edge. It doesn’t even feel that good, but his thoughts are swirling, jumbled, the stretch too much. Yoh is caging him in. There’s no other way to put it, but Ren doesn’t feel captive, just safe and secure, imbued with a stockholm feeling that Yoh is too good to ever induce on someone. Ren can’t look anywhere but at him.

“You can wrap your legs around me,” Yoh murmurs once he bottoms out finally,  _ finally _ . There’s so much sweat and slick and wet between the two of them, and Ren is already tired and still scared.

It feels like giving in. He doesn’t know to what, but it still feels like a concession when he obeys.

Then Yoh starts moving, and Ren doesn’t have much space in his head to be thinking about winning or losing.

It’s just skin slapping against skin, uncoordinated and almost clumsy as Ren rolls his hips into it, trying to sync the two of them together. Then Yoh brushes somewhere deep, a place that lights a trail from his hips to his chest, leaving him dizzy as Yoh pulls back and hits it again. Ren gasps, arches. He wants it there. Wants it over and over again until he can’t breath. 

He hopes there’s nothing that feels better than this, because he wants his only euphoria to be here, shared in this room that neither of them own. They’re both breathing hard, though Ren is sure he looks infinitely times more unkempt. He’s sweating all over, the air cool on his skin, and Ren has a brief, weak thought that he’d like Yoh to hug him, and then he’s trying too hard to not think about it for the thought to go away.

“Faster,” he manages to say, hating how broken his voice sounds, pressing his hips down. “Faster,” he repeats in case it wasn’t clear enough the first time, but all that comes out is a whimper.

Yoh complies, pulling back and snapping forward one, two, three times. It feels good, too good. Ren tries to stifle the soft, punched out noises he’s making in a losing battle. He’s always losing to Yoh, and he doesn’t care anymore.

He bites his lip, but even then he can hear the noise working against his throat, pushing its way out. Yoh strokes his cheek, probably in an attempt to get him to stop biting down, and Ren is ashamed of how quickly he gives up staying quiet in favor of panting into Yoh’s hand.

That catharsis builds in his stomach, aching and fast, but it’s different from the times he was alone. Ren is burning, writhing from the overwhelming crest sparking in his abdomen, right to the most intimate part of him.

He’s going crazy, tightening his thighs, clenching down, arching his back so Yoh goes even deeper — and nothing else will ever feel so satisfying. Yoh is sweating, and Ren wants to lick off the sweat rolling down, dripping off his chin. The thought only distracts him for a few seconds, and then he’s back to looking at Yoh, at his expression that Ren can’t face, not right now, not when he’s baring everything.

_ Don’t say it.  _ He opens his mouth to tell him, but the only thing that comes out is a low, keening moan.

Yoh’s eyes are bright, their foreheads knocking together, and Ren can’t look away.  _ Don’t say it.  _ He has to hope Yoh can tell just by looking at him.  _ Don’t.  _

“You’re beautiful,” Yoh breathes out, voice wrecked, and it breaks the whole dam.

Ren seizes, grinds down as he wails, grabbing for anything to pull himself back, but his hands slip and there’s nothing to ground himself on. 

Yoh presses their cheeks together, whispering something Ren is too far gone to hear. And after it’s over, he wants it again. “One more,” he insists breathily, pressing himself flush against Yoh shamelessly, too fucked out to care. 

Yoh opens his mouth, probably to ask if Ren is sure, but Ren cuts him off. “ _ Yes _ , I’m sure.” It sounds like he’s begging, holding back a sob, and when Yoh’s face breaks into a pure, adoring smile, Ren almost starts crying.

“Put your arms around me,” Yoh whispers, and Ren is too tired, too boneless to argue as Yoh pulls him into his lap, their faces too close. Close enough to — Ren shakes his head, chest cracking — 

Yoh kisses him. 

The noise he makes is humiliating, embarrassingly eager, too vulnerable as he licks desperately into Yoh’s mouth, drooling as Yoh presses too deep, splits him open. 

“Yoh,” he moans, and he can’t stop. He keeps repeating it, voice cracking, choking on the name as he bounces in Yoh’s lap. It’s all he’s saying, all he’s thinking.  _ Yoh. Yoh. Yoh. Yoh. _

“You’re beautiful,” Yoh murmurs. 

Ren shudders, eyes rolling back, hating himself for reacting so viscerally, and  _ god,  _ every person Ren’s met has made him self-loathing and cruel. He doesn’t think he’ll ever love himself, but right here he feels like he could. He’ll never say he loves anyone — never never never, but with Yoh—

He can’t breathe when Yoh kisses him, has wanted it for so long and so badly that he doesn’t care if he suffocates from it, the asphyxiation making everything fuzzy. 

“Ren,” Yoh says. Ren whines, head lolling with the bouncing motion. His legs are starting to burn, and his grip slips as he buries his face into Yoh’s neck. 

You kisses his ear, whispers  _ you feel so good,  _ and Ren lets go, sobbing as his vision spots and whites out. He’s dimly aware that Yoh is shaking, or maybe Ren is shaking so violently that it seems like Yoh is too.

He tips over the moment Yoh lets go of him, too wrung out to put up a strong front, thighs trembling from the strain. Yoh only stays up for a few seconds before following, falling forward to press Ren into the rumpled sheets. 

Yoh hugs him, subduing the hollow hum in his heart, but Ren knows it’s not gone, just waiting. Yoh has remolded him, his warmth encompassing and suffusing. Ren will never be rid of it, and when they pull apart he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel full again, not unless it’s with Yoh.

He mouths at Yoh’s neck, sucking on his pulse, feeling its slowing thud on his tongue. They’re both sticky and gross, and Ren should let go, but he can’t remember the last time someone held him — not even someone who loved him, just someone who cared. 

He’s uncomfortably warm, their chests pressed together and heaving, and he feels a cold crumbling fear grip him at the thought he might be crying — but he isn’t. And for a brief, disillusioned moment, he thinks it’d be okay, because Yoh wouldn’t care.

Yoh smiles against his cheek, and Ren lets himself think of again _.  _


End file.
